


Memorial Day

by Danny (DannyC)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, triple agent Brock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-01
Updated: 2016-03-01
Packaged: 2018-05-24 03:11:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6139363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DannyC/pseuds/Danny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Memorial Day. Winter still didn’t quite understand it; people died all of the time. He had seen it, had caused it more times than he would likely ever remember. Not even Brock knew the number of men, women, and children that had fallen at the hands of the Asset, or Bucky Barnes before him. Yet, Winter had spent countless hours searching for Jack’s grave, and the look on Brock’s face when he’d announced that he had found it had made him both happy and sick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memorial Day

**Author's Note:**

> Believe me, I love bad guy Brock as much as the next guy, but picture this while reading: Brock and Jack who tried to do as right by Winter as they could. If you're looking for trash or an abusive relationship, this isn't it.

Memorial Day. Winter still didn’t quite understand it; people died all of the time. He had seen it, had caused it more times than he would likely ever remember. Not even Brock knew the number of men, women, and children that had fallen at the hands of the Asset, or Bucky Barnes before him. It had been a part of life as a child, knowing someone sick or hungry died; had been a part of life during his young adulthood as he was a soldier in a terrible war, and again as the grand asset, the Fist of Hydra.

With all of this death, the constant understanding that no one survived forever, especially on a battle field, why was it so important to visit the dead? Why pay homage to those who had gone before you, when it was just another fact of life, like the sky being blue, Steve Rogers being good, or Hydra being indestructible? Why bother with these silly graveyards, vast expanses with rocks and names and dates, rotting corpses long since emptied out lying underneath? Why adorn them with wreaths and flags, with flowers, when those whose names mark the stones can’t see them? Why visit dead bodies at all? No one was inside, didn’t these people understand that?

Yet, Winter had spent countless hours searching for Jack’s grave, and the look on Brock’s face when he’d announced that he had found it had made him both happy and sick. He didn’t understand why Brock would want to go, didn’t think Jack would want them to, but he didn’t say that; Winter remained silent about his thoughts and feelings on the matter, until May 25th, when Brock finally decided it was time to go pay the late Agent Rollins a visit.

The drive out to the cemetery probably should have been awkward, since it was spent in a heavy, dark, tense atmosphere, something Winter wasn’t as used to now that he had been out of Hydra’s grip for a time. He stole peeks over at Brock every once in a while, but he knew better than to try interrupting whatever was going on in Bones’ head, had learned that lesson well plenty of times before. Maybe it had been a part of playing good for Hydra, but maybe that was just how Bones was; maybe speaking, interrupting whatever he was thinking about would get Winter into trouble. No matter how long he stayed away from Hydra, the memories of his punishments wouldn’t let him test it either way.

Instead of bothering Brock, Winter stared down at what was in his lap, holding the flowers delicately, making sure he didn’t hurt them with either of his hands. Beneath the flowers sat an envelope, Winter’s addition to the offering they were planning to leave, a letter to Jack with the words he wished he could have said before it was too late, apology for getting him killed included. He hadn’t let Brock read the letter, too afraid of how he might react to some of what was included. That was between him and Jack, Winter had decided, and no one else needed to know about it. Then again, Jack was dead and gone; the letter had just been Winter’s way of getting things off of his chest, as Brock sometimes said. It wasn’t like Jack was going to read it anyway.

Walking through the cemetery itself was strange for Winter as well. Who were these people? Had he seen them before, had he impacted their lives somehow? Did they know who Bucky Barnes was, when even he didn’t? Seeing the flags, wreaths, and flowers was strange as well; again, Winter was stricken with the question of why people were doing this, visiting bodies long since decayed or freshly buried. It didn’t make sense to him.

And then they reached it.

Jack’s stone was plain, his grave lackluster compared to the festive or flowered ones around it, boasting only a name with two dates below it. Winter hesitated a few feet back, licking over his lips nervously as he glanced around, but no one else was near enough to see their faces, the closest woman several rows away and across a little pathway. Brock didn’t have the same caution, it seemed; he stepped forward slowly but steadily, coming to stand directly in front of Jack’s monument.

As Winter watched, Bones stared down at it for several long, long minutes, Winter busying himself with toying with the flowers and the letter in his hands, not knowing what to do, what to say. He had never done this before. He left men dead, he didn’t go see them after. He couldn’t help but feel mesmerized though, as he watched Bones slowly reach out, resting a rough hand on the coarse stone before him, thumb brushing over it lightly for a moment.

“Brock?” Winter asked quietly, but his words all but caught in his throat; Winter regretted speaking instantly, seeing the way Brock didn’t even seem to hear him. He was unfazed, so Winter fell silent once again, figuring Brock needed… something. Time, maybe. Silence, solitude, to be alone with Jack. Their relationship had always confused Winter, and he hadn’t ever bothered to ask; he had heard plenty of things from others though, of course. Husbands, mom and dad, different things said about the two men when they weren’t around. For all Winter knew, they were just best pals.

And now… Now, Jack was dead.

Before Winter could think about that much more, Brock was moving again. He turned on his heel and walked away, as though his shoulders hadn’t been tight, hands hadn’t been shaking against cold stone, eyes hadn’t been stinging with tears unshed. Winter didn’t know what to do; he started to turn and follow him, but the flowers and letter in his hands stopped him, something calling his attention back towards that lonesome rock before him.

“Jack?” Winter said quietly, breathing the name like a prayer unanswered as he stepped forward hesitantly. Was he allowed to be there? Was he allowed to be sad, to mourn, to speak to Jack, after he had been the one to kill him? It was his fault, after all. Was that an acceptable response, to yearn for the other man, for his rare smiles or laughs, the way he’d roll his eyes when Brock did something particularly stupid, the dour stares he gave everyone else. Was it okay, feeling hurt and broken up inside, like part of him had died along with the other? Winter didn’t know the answer.

Standing just in front of the headstone, Winter paused once again, glancing around once again before he began to speak. “Brock, he bought you flowers. I swear, it was all his idea,” he said, a bit of a smile falling over his lips as he thought of how Jack probably would have reacted to the news, teasing Brock about it, Bones getting that look on his face, letting out a huff and rolling his eyes, saying something snide in return; they would have said “I love you” without uttering those words. Winter had seen it plenty of times, knew their ways like he knew how best to eliminate a target, how to kill someone quickly or drag it out, how to disassemble and reassemble his weapons quickly and efficiently. He knew how they would have behaved, and that hurt more than most things did, because Jack would never be here to do that again. He would never tease Brock. He would never give those fond smiles when the other wasn’t looking. He would never roll his eyes, scoff, laugh, or hum under his breath again. Jack was dead, and—

“It’s my fault,” Winter finished aloud, shaking his head some as he swallowed, letting out a ragged sigh immediately following. “I’m sorry. I failed my mission, and you got fucked because of it,” he mumbled. “I’m not… I’m not sorry I didn’t kill Steve, and I’m not sorry Hydra fell for now,” Winter amended, “But I’m sorry you got hurt because of it. Killed,” he said, clenching his jaw for a moment, wishing he had his mouth guard to keep his teeth from grinding.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like that, Jack,” Winter said as he stared down at the name on the rock before him, just a rock, not the man he wanted. “It wasn’t. I never thought I’d get out of Hydra, not alive. But if I did, if I had been able to think about it back then, I think… I think I would have liked for you and Brock to get out with me,” he mumbled quietly. “Y’know, some of the agents and techs, they’d call you guys my mom and dad,” he said, huffing a breath that could have been a laugh, “I don’t know about that; don’t think you’re supposed to feel that way about your parents, but you are… were.. my family,” Winter said slowly; he wasn’t explaining this right, he knew that, but he supposed it didn’t matter since dead men couldn’t understand things anyway.

Slowly lowering himself to the ground, Winter knelt down on one knee, placing the flowers on the ground and leaning them against the grave marker in silence, just letting himself be for a moment before he tried again. “I don’t know if you believed in all that Hydra stuff, or if you were a triple agent like Bones,” Winter said, testing each word slowly, “But I don’t really care. I know you cared about Brock, and about me… and I know we cared about you too. Both of us,” he assured, though he still didn’t know why he was doing this, talking to a dead man. Could Jack…maybe hear him?

“I uh… Guess I’m not the romantic type, not like Brock is,” he said with a gesture to the flowers and a bit of a grin, still thinking fondly of how Jack would have reacted to the flowers, “But I brought something too. It’s not much, but it’s about all I can give you. They said I’m rich now, can you imagine that? Lived my whole goddamn life with nothing, now I’ve got more money than I could spend,” he said, then shook his head and backpedaled; “I’m getting off track, huh?”

Clearing his throat some, Winter ran a hand over his face, realizing for the first time that his breathing was ragged, his hands trembling some as he gripped the envelope tightly between his fingers. “I just uh.. Jack, I… Listen,” he said, desperate now to get it out, to make him understand, see all of it as the big picture, the finished mission, however he wanted to think about it. “I love you. Brock, he loves you too, I know it. I don’t know how, not exactly, but I don’t guess that matters much either, right? And I’m sorry, I’m so.. so fucking sorry, Jack,” Winter said, hot tears in his eyes, rolling slowly down his cheeks as his metal fist closed around the letter, crumpling it up in a shaking hand. “Please, can you..” It wasn’t right of him to ask though, so Winter didn’t finish, he didn’t beg for forgiveness.

Swallowing back his unfinished plea, Winter let out another ragged sigh, leaning forward until his forehead was pressed to the stone in front of him. “I don’t believe in god or heaven… but for all’a our sakes, I hope there’s not a hell either,” he mumbled then, eyes closed as he bit down on his bottom lip. “I better go find Brock, okay? He’s real upset about you being dead. You just had to go get yourself killed, huh? Don’t you know we—“ need you? he doesn’t finish.

“Anyway… I gotta go. Maybe I’ll be back sometime,” Winter mumbled as he slowly placed the letter beside the flowers, standing up and brushing himself off. “Bye, Jack,” he added softly before he turned on his heel, going off to find Brock, wherever he might have gone. He was leaving another man he cared about behind, something that felt all too familiar by now. Still, Jack was gone, but Brock was still here, still needed him. Winter’s mission was simple, at least to him; keep Brock safe, and as happy as could be expected, considering the circumstances. He could do that. He wouldn’t fail this mission, not like he had with Steve, and with Jack. He wouldn’t fail Brock.


End file.
